The Country House Courtship (53 page)

As they had turned into the long, tree-lined drive of the estate, the minister turned his heart to God, and emptied it before Him. “Lord, I love her,” he said, in his mind. “She wants other things than what I can give her.” He thought again about that and considered the situation to be hopeless. “But I give her to You. You have brought us together as neighbours; I pray that if it is possible, if it is
Your will
, that You might bring us together as man and wife!”

There, he had prayed it! He may have lacked the right to speak to her; or the courage; but he had at last prayed for the thing he desired ever more and more, which was to have Beatrice Forsythe as his wife. And he knew that if God was in agreement, He would bring it to pass.

He sat back in his seat with a feeling of expectation. The house came into view, and soon they had pulled up in front.

Mr. Barton said, “Well, here we are, O'Brien.”

He looked at the other man. Somehow, he felt that Mr. Barton knew he was there about Beatrice, just as Mr. O'Brien knew that Barton was. As if reading his thoughts, Barton said, “May the best man win.” He wore the hint of a smile as he spoke, for it was clear who he considered to be the best man.

Mr. O'Brien responded with, “God's will be done.”

At the door, Mr. Barton straightened his neckcloth and his jacket, and put his hat at a rakish angle upon his head, and then used the brass knocker on the door.

There was quite a bustle inside the house.

When the men were ushered into the drawing room, they found it filled with all the occupants of the house saving the children and Mrs. Perler. Mr. Mornay stepped forward to offer Mr. O'Brien a seat—a decidedly unusual greeting, but Mr. O'Brien was pleased, of course.

Mr. Barton's eyes narrowed.

When his host came up to Barton, he asked, “You haven't come intent upon changing my mind, I hope?”

“Yours, sir? No.” His eyes roamed to where Miss Forsythe was sitting, needlework in hand, between Ariana and Mr. O'Brien, who had taken a seat in a wing chair near the settee where the ladies sat.

“But I warn you, I won't have you speaking to Miss Forsythe regarding a matter which is settled, to my mind.”

Mr. Barton felt feisty; what did he have to lose? “I have the right, do you not think, to hear from her own lips why she has refused my offer?”

Mr. O'Brien's head spun, for he overheard this remark. His heart skipped a beat. Or maybe a few.

“No, you have no rights whatsoever when it comes to my family.” For some reason, it was much easier for Mr. Mornay to be curt in person rather than in writing.

“Mr. Mornay—may I ask if you are fully aware of my situation? My fortune?”

“I am, Mr. Barton. But it is neither here nor there; Miss Forsythe is not to be bartered for; and you have received not only a rejection from her, but from me as well. Let it suffice you, sir. It is my opinion you would do well to leave it alone.”

Beatrice was now shooting alarmed looks at the men, for she was overhearing snatches of conversation; words like, “rejection,” and “leave it alone.” The other women in the room were also gathering that the dialogue was of the juiciest nature. Mrs. Royleforst told her companion to “hush!” and even Ariana lowered her voice and then turned to watch the men.

“Is that what prevents this connexion?” Mr. Barton was saying. “Your opinion? Should it not be the young lady's opinion that matters? Or perhaps that of her mother?” His eyes turned to settle upon Mrs. Forsythe, who also had begun to watch the men, trying to listen, although she felt it thoroughly poor manners to do so.

This was an indirect threat: Mr. Barton was prepared to take his case to Mrs. Forsythe. Mr. Mornay had no problem with the idea, actually. Why not let the girl's mother turn him down? What difference would it make?

“Be my guest, sir.”

Mr. Barton's eyes momentarily flickered with something—disappointment? He bowed lightly and turned to Mrs. Forsythe. But he surveyed the room, and saw that many faces were watching his. A maid rushed into the room telling Ariana that little Miranda would not cease her crying. This was sufficient to send Ariana at once from her seat and out of the room.

Mr. Barton looked at Beatrice. “Miss Forsythe—may I join you?” he asked.

She looked uncomfortable, but could hardly deny a simple request. “As you wish,” she said, and he took the spot which had just been vacated by her sister.

The man was uncomfortably aware that the eyes of both Mr. Mornay and Mr. O'Brien were settled upon him; but he was not so uncomfortable that he could be put off that easily.

He waited a few moments while other conversations in the room were taken up again. Then, turning to her, he said, in a low tone, “I beg your pardon, Miss Forsythe, but are you aware that I sent a letter to Mr. Mornay? To offer for your hand in marriage?”

She blushed, but kept her eyes averted. “I am, sir.”

“You know, then, that he has refused my offer?”

“Yes, I know.” She found her courage and met his eyes. He looked injured; she looked away again, staring at the pattern on the rug as though she needed to commit it to memory.

“I had reason to believe that my suit would be acceptable to you, did I not?”

“You never mentioned offering for me, Mr. Barton.” She was uncomfortable to the extreme, but realized she would have to finish this conversation. Better to get it over with, in any case, than to leave any lingering doubt.

“You cut me to the quick!” he exclaimed, with a hand to his heart. “Did I not ask if I might court you? Is that not tantamount to declaring my love?” His voice was loud enough for her to hear clearly, but low enough so that no one else could. She blushed afresh.

“I am sorry, sir, truly.”

“Please give me your reasons,” he said. “What have you against me? I beg of you, Miss Forsythe! I cannot mend my ways if I do not know what is displeasing in them.”

She really did not want to get into this discussion, but to quiet him, she said, “You walked out when we were to pray for my sister.” She turned her eyes to him.

He saw her dissatisfaction, and thought quickly. “I am a private person, Miss—
Beatrice
. It does not seem so, I grant; but my public appearance is not the same as the man I know myself to be, intimately. I cannot, like some (and he looked briefly at the curate here. Who was staring stonily at him. Which he ignored.), pray prettily, and aloud. I can only think to pray when I am alone.”

Despite herself, Beatrice found his answer interesting. “You have only to practice it, sir,” she replied. “Praying in a group, or perhaps just a twosome, is no great difficulty once you have practiced it. You must force yourself to try it, perhaps with just one other person at first.”

“Miss Forsythe—” and he instinctively went to grasp one of her hands, but saw movement out of the corner of his eye; Mr. Mornay was standing against the wall, arms crossed, watching his every move. He decided against it, returning his hands to his own lap.

“Will you be my tutor? Tell me that you, lovely Beatrice, will teach me to pray aloud, in public, and I will give it practice, with my whole heart.” He had turned to face her, so that his whole person leaned in toward her, and suddenly Mr. Mornay was there, in front of him, and with a stony visage.

“I beg your pardon,” mumbled Barton, resuming his previous position.

Mr. Mornay retreated, and Mr. Barton swallowed his pride. He suddenly felt what it must be like to be a chess piece. He was a mere pawn, but Mornay was king! He might only make small moves, but they mattered, utterly.

Meanwhile, Beatrice had thought of more to accuse him with. “When my sister first took ill, you might have put up at least a part of our number at the Manor. You offered no rooms whatsoever! When you have more than you can need or possibly use!”

He was taken aback, but again he thought quickly. “Anne was often ill, you will recall,” he said. “She has been better of late, but at that time I feared to compromise her health; I knew she would take it upon herself to play hostess; she would have exerted herself for guests. It might well have prolonged her sickness, rather than allowing her the time and the quiet to recuperate as she has. I think (I am sorry if it offends you), but I still think I was in the right in that decision.”

Well! This did seem to answer. But she met his gaze and said, “You mentioned nothing of this at the time, sir.”

“How could I? Anne would have counted herself ill-used, and insisted on us taking all of you home with us. Only then, she would have never been able to get her rest. I am her older brother, you recall, and I am responsible for her before others.”

She had to acknowledge the truth of that. “I give you my compliments on her marriage, by the way,” she said.

“I thank you,” he answered, watching her intently with his dark eyes. “I would call myself a happy man, almost—if I could only secure my own happiness in marriage—to you.”

Beatrice felt her hair stand on end. How could he dare to say such things to her right there in the middle of a roomful of people? She was blushing afresh, and she looked helplessly around her, and her gaze fell upon Mr. Mornay. He took only a moment to read her feelings. He was a wise and good relation, Beatrice felt. And he was coming to rescue her.

Which he did. With little more than a nod of his head, he had Mr. Barton making his excuses in a minute, and took him away from Beatrice. She let out a breath of relief. In the next minute, Mr. O'Brien sat down in his place.

“I hope you have not had to overexert yourself,” he said, as if he knew precisely what sort of conversation had just taken place. Beatrice could only gape at him for a moment, before coming to herself and saying, “No.” Inside she was thinking frantically of what she could say, or do, to show Mr. O'Brien that she had not meant any of her earlier foolish statements. She did not care about a fine large house like Aspindon. She did not want to go to London for a Season at all! She could care less about the size of a man's fortune! Oh, how would she ever be able to make him know her, really?

“Has Barton discomposed you?”

She eyed him for a moment, wondering how much to reveal. “I do not wish to speak of that gentleman, if you don't mind,” she offered.

“I beg your pardon.”

“No, it is just that I have nothing good to say of him at this moment.” She hoped that was an explanation. Meanwhile, Mr. Mornay had returned to the room—and there was no sign of Mr. Barton.

“Miss Forsythe,” said Mr. O'Brien, “would you do me the honour of accompanying me for a short walk on the grounds?”

“But there is snow on the ground,” she protested.

He smiled. “Five minutes of your time would suffice me, if you please. Not nearly long enough to develop frostbite.”

Beatrice smiled. “Very well. I shall be happy to.”

Mr. Mornay did inquire as to their destination; he could only be expected to be so forbearing, even in this circumstance. As Beatrice went to get her coat and bonnet, Mr. O'Brien spoke to Mr. Mornay a few seconds longer. After thanking him, he went off for his own greatcoat and scarf and hat. When they had both left the room, Mornay peered at his watch fob. It was going on four-thirty.